Anthems of Joy

When Maya and Franziska's intention to get married is made public, they get railroaded into using their wedding to generate good press for the district prosecutors' office. Over the next few months, Franziska finds that her relationship with Maya isn't the only one that gets strengthened in the pursuit of happiness.
Also, I wrote what feels like half a Sesame Street episode for this. You're welcome/I'm sorry.

Notes:

Hello and welcome to "Maya and Franziska get married on an episode of Sesame Street." I'd say "that's it. That's the fic" except it really ended up being a lot more than I bargained for!
This one happened because I had a silly dream about it like a year ago and a few people (Ellory, Madi, Elliot, and Willow, thank you (?) for enabling me. btw I am linking them bc they are all amazing writers giving us more AA f/f fic and you should go check that out laksfjd) made the mistake of saying they would read it. I set out to write a short and silly thing, but it insisted on becoming what it is now: a quiet, slow-paced wedding fic in which the actual wedding is basically just an epilogue. It also takes its premise too seriously but does not, I hope, take itself too seriously.
If you're sensitive to things like technical accuracy, you should probably see the disclaimers in the endnotes before proceeding (tl;dr I did not strive for that here). An additional thank to to Elliot for the beta reading and encouragement!!

(See the end of the work for more notes.)

Work Text:

"I’m sorry, Franziska. I know you wanted to remain discreet," Miles Edgeworth says, turning his phone around to allow her to see the screen. "I’m not quite sure how they caught wind of it, but . . ."

Her own face looks back at her, cold and stony and a good few years younger—an old photograph plucked from another headline published years ago, no doubt. Maya Fey’s mugshot is pasted beside it, unflattering light and weariness making her look aged beyond her years although this picture, too, must be from a previous decade entirely. Franziska’s mouth pulls tight, lips flattening to the point of pain. The caption below the paired images reads, "Franziska Von Karma, 31, and former courtroom victim Maya Faye, 30, are reportedly set to be married within the year."

"Not a single detail of this article is correct," she remarks, scanning the rest of it. "Not even our names are correct. Who is responsible?" she asks, scrolling back up.

"Who do you think?" her little brother scoffs. "Ms. Hart and Ms. Swift are, as ever, exercising creative license based on facts they should not be privy to. Their blog has begun gaining traction, so, if I were you, I would expect to begin receiving requests to confirm."

Franziska allows herself precisely one half-second to slump in her seat, and then she resumes her perfect posture. "When we confirm, we will ensure that the information is corrected. Thank you for the warning, little brother. I will be unavailable for the next fifteen minutes. I am going to call my fiancée."

"Better make it twenty-five," Miles suggests, as if he has any right to comment on the length of her conversations when he is well-known to lose hours of his day to arguments with Phoenix Wright.

Franziska offers him her best approximation of the icy glare captured in that old photograph. Judging by his quiet chuckle as she slams the door shut, it's lost its edge somewhat over the years. Regrettable, but a predictable outcome of being loved by Maya Fey.

"Franz! Everything OK? Ooh, do you wanna do lunch? I can be there by 1:00. 12:30 if it's burgers."

Four years in, and it still fills her chest with warmth to be greeted so enthusiastically. She takes a moment to collect herself, finding the willpower to turn down the lunch date she knows she has no time for. "That sounds lovely, but I'll be in court in an hour."

"Sooooo this is about how you're suddenly older than me and how you picked a wedding date without consulting me?" Franziska can imagine too well her sly grin, the way the corners of her eyes are crinkled, the way she's almost certainly leaning forward just a bit.

"Ah. I was hoping to spare you the trouble of stumbling across that particular bit of misinformation."

"Eh, I'm subscribed to Lotta's blog. I was a particular fan of 'former courtroom victim Maya Faye,'" she intones, giving the name an extra twang.

"It was all awful. Why do you read anything that woman produces?"

"She's a pretty reliable source of cases for Nick! Also, it's usually pretty funny to see her writing about people I know. Poor WP gets the third degree every time he plays a new part. She just can't accept that he's not a murderer."

"Fantastic," Franziska sighs. "The woman is a nuisance, but… Miles Edgeworth has suggested that other outlets have caught wind of our… situation."

"Our engagement," Maya corrects, as she has done several times a week for the past two months. "Ooh, are we gonna go on talk shows and stuff? Am I gonna be famous?"

"Foolish," she laughs, Maya's persistent silliness settling over her like sunshine. It had all felt too bright, once, but these days, she longs to bask in it. For all her comments, though, Maya's no fool; she knows exactly what she's doing. "It's a simple matter of correcting the record via more reputable sources. Now that the information is public, it might as well be correct. I only wanted to warn you that you may be asked for a statement. You should feel free to do so if you feel comfortable. But, Maya, please…"

"Don't make things up just because it's funny to wind up journalists," Maya recites, sighing wistfully. "I promise I won't tell anyone we're having a Steel Samurai-themed reception."

"See that you don't," Franziska groans, even the joking mention of it causing her to tense.

"Oh, holy— I gotta go, Franz. I love you. And quit worrying so much! It already aged you a whole year, according to some sources." Franziska still hasn't quite pinned down what all of Maya's duties are back in Kurain, but there are days when, inexplicably, Maya is the busier of them. Today sounds as if it may be one of those days.

"I'll try to relax. I love you, too," she answers, and the line closes abruptly to the backdrop of Maya's voice shouting, "Auntie Beulah, please don't come down the stairs!"

Franziska may have no idea what that means, but she is sure of four things:

She will hear about it soon enough.
Their wedding will not be themed.
They will have plenty of time to make appropriate plans.
There will be no need to appear on television.

She turns out to be right about exactly one of them: Maya tells her the story of Beulah's broken hip and headstrong attitude at dinner the following night.

Regarding the other three, she's allowed to continue her blissful certainty for the better part of the week. Their official engagement announcement is released and received warmly by both the general public and the other prosecutors in the office.

And then the emails begin arriving.

Insultingly, they go primarily to Miles, who arguably has no stake whatsoever in the proceedings, except:

"If you could find it within yourself to consider some of the requests… some positive coverage would do a great deal for the image of this office."

He's right, of course, as much as it infuriates her. Even years later, the harm done by Debeste and his ilk lingers in the public's memory. Opinions have shifted only in that they are now whispers instead of shouts, but the content is the same: Prosecutors are not to be trusted. Prosecutors do not care about the truth. Prosecutors settle as soon as there's someone to blame. Prosecutors forge evidence and torment witnesses.

The introduction of Simon Blackquill has undone any goodwill that Klavier Gavin's presence had brought them, never mind that he's undeserving of the negative attention. The whispers have been growing louder lately, it's true. That does not mean that it should fall to her to soften public opinion. Franziska is not known for projecting soft in any situation.

But… Maya Fey is. Foolish though Lotta Hart's description may have been, Maya does represent the group of individuals wronged by the district's prosecutors.

"I will consider it. We will consider it," she amends, swallowing hard at the reminder that she now shares her life with someone on a rather permanent basis.

So she accepts Miles' curated list of offers, requests, and suggestions, forwards them to Maya, and tries very hard to keep them out of her mind until the end of the workday.

When she arrives at the Fey manor, it's to find Maya practically buzzing with excitement.

"Talk shows," she says, eyes glittering with mischief.

"Ugh," Franziska responds, losing all hope of enjoying dinner before having to think about the best way to publicly air details of her private life.

Maya laughs, bright as the chimes hanging from the manor's roof. "I'm kidding. Things like that ruin people like me, you know."

She does know. Misty Fey's fate had spiraled out of her control quickly enough without the help of nosy hosts prying deeper into her life. Franziska renews her silent vow to keep Maya from coming under the same accusatory scrutiny as her mother. The possibility must truly be bothering Maya if she's going so far as to mention it. All her teasing and bluster can only do so much to hide the tension at the corners of her mouth and the way she's shifting her weight constantly.

"My little brother took the liberty of discarding the more absurd options. I am certain that the remaining possibilities must have some merit. However… perhaps discussing them can wait a bit longer?"

An enormous exhale of relief bursts forth from Maya, all but propelling her backwards with the force of it. "Yeah. Oh, thank the Holy Mother. I really wanted to just see you first!"

"It has only been five days, Maya Fey."

"Five agonizing, extremely long days! Come on in, Fran. Pearly did another soup experiment and it smells amazing."

Maya kisses her cheek and takes her hand, and once she gets a whiff of whatever Pearl has concocted, it's as easy as breathing to forget, just for a moment, the work waiting for them later in the evening.

"OK, but I do think it would be hilarious to see you going toe-to-toe with Terra Gaider."

"Hilarious? It would be humiliating for them. Their 'intense examinations' are so heavily scripted that they don't know how to ask follow-up questions. Besides, we prosecuted one of their producers lately for harassing guests. Miles Edgeworth's famed eye for detail must be failing him." Franziska makes a face and scratches that one off the list.

"At least he categorized for us!" Maya points out. "And most of the venues and services seem legit."

"Yes, but do they meet our needs? We hadn't even decided if we were going to have an indoor or outdoor ceremony."

Maya frowns. "Uh, yes, we had? Outdoor. Obviously."

Franziska has no memory of this, but there are too many more immediate decisions for her to argue about it now. "Then cross out the indoor venues," she says, distracted by attempting to research the caterers on the list. The page attempts to load but gets stuck in buffering.

"Wait, really? OK!"

Franziska curses, realizing she's been played expertly. She's less frustrated by Maya's spur-of-the-moment ruse than she is by the poor connection that caused her to lose concentration. Really, it's the overall situation that's bothering her the most. This, all of this, is precisely why they'd wanted to delay planning. She's not ready to think about the price of hors d'oeuvres or the seating requirements of their guests. She hasn't decided if she even wants a dress, much less a custom one from Miles Edgeworth's tailor's cousin.

"Bedtime?" Maya asks quietly from the other end of the couch, biting her lip.

"No. Not yet." They have to make one decision tonight. Any one at all. "It's only—you were right. We should begin with the speaking engagements. Those are the most pressing. And the rest…"

"The rest will wait until we're ready," Maya assures her, reaching over to ease her phone from her hand. "No need to squeeze the life out of your lifeline."

Franziska huffs and squeezes Maya's hand instead, much more gently than the way she'd been gripping the phone. "Thank you. It is…"

"A lot." Maya shrugs, picking up the thought when Franziska trails off. "It's exciting, but it's a lot. And… you know. We're having to think about it earlier than we expected to. It's OK to be a little off-kilter, I think. At least, I hope it's OK, because I sure am."

"It isn't showing. You're far better at adapting than I am. It's admirable."

"I promise I screamed into a pillow at least once today," Maya swears, crossing her heart with her free hand.

There's nothing for it; Franziska loves her. The sincerity on her face coaxes a laugh from Franziska. Maya smiles back, and suddenly the wretched list seems like something they can conquer.

"All right. What do we have left on the godforsaken speaking engagements list?"

Maya hums, shifting across the couch to lean against her instead. "Let's see… we nixed a few of them on principle, so we're down to five. What do you think?" she asks, turning her notepad so they can both see it. On the current page is a handwritten copy of Miles' list in Maya's charmingly untidy penmanship. Several options have already been scratched out with varying degrees of gusto. Remaining are:

Law Lately
The Trial Tribune
Getting Chatty with Catty and Cathy
L.A. Today
Sesame Street

Franziska blinks and reads the list again, an ancient, mostly forgotten jingle playing in her head: "One of these things is not like the other."

"Maya."

"What?"

"Are you quite certain these were on the initial list?"

Maya hums again, shuffling around under Franziska's arm—and elbowing her forcefully in the side—as she searches for her phone to pull up the email from Miles. Sure enough, everything on Maya’s list is mirrored in Miles’.

"We are not going on that awful gossip hour," she decides, easing the pen from Maya’s hand and scratching out Catty and Cathy.

"Why do you even know that’s what it is, hmm?" Maya wonders, wiggling again so she can turn to look at Franziska. "Have you been watching trash TV in your downtime? My Franziska?"

"That is neither here nor there," she dodges primly, recrossing her legs and straightening her back. "What about the others? The first three are relatively neutral news outlets, but the fourth…"

"Isn’t it like… some kids’ show? Why’s it even on the list?"

"A joke, perhaps." It’s the only explanation, yet… she’s intrigued. Her memories are fuzzy at best, but she thinks she recalls having seen a few episodes, perhaps during some of the rare occasions she’d been allowed to stay home with Mother when they were all in the States.

"Must be. That’s the one with, like, the blue guy, right? Me want cookie!" she—mimics, presumably. It’s a bit over the top for one of her usual spells of silliness.

They sit in silence for a moment, uncertain, and then. Well, then, it’s too late entirely.

Pearl gasps from the hallway and rushes over. "Um, Master Maya, do you mean Cookie Monster!?"

"Maybe? Blue and hairy with the… eyes?" Maya asks her, raising her hands up to form semi-circles on top of her head.

Franziska wonders if she is, potentially, dreaming this exchange. She must have fallen asleep on the couch after the frankly ridiculous amount of soup she’d consumed, and perhaps some ingredient is causing an otherwise mundane dream to turn bizarre at the edges.

Pearl clasps her hands over her mouth. "Are you going on Sesame Street? Do you… do you think I could meet Big Bird?"

"Oh, Pearly… we’re not really sure yet, but I’ll keep that in mind, I promise!" Maya assures her.

In the time Franziska has known her, Pearl Fey has never asked for anything more complicated than sleepovers with Trucy Wright. The earnest awe on her face makes Franziska want to fold immediately, and that assures her even further that this is a dream. Franziska von Karma does not give in so easily.

"We will take it into consideration," she promises gravely, hoping to strike an equilibrium between logic and indulgence. It seems to appease Pearl, at least, who continues about her evening as if she’s walking on air.

Franziska does not wake up, despite her certainty that she’s dreaming. She does, however, fall asleep a few hours later with Maya wrapped around her. They still haven’t made a single decision.

The equilibrium, if it had existed at all, is shattered the next day, and it is all the fault of Phoenix Wright.

"Sunday brunch with the family," as Maya calls it, is a semi-regular occurrence that has gone on without Franziska for years. For reasons she cannot comprehend, due to events she cannot identify, her presence became expected beginning sometime around six months prior. Attempts to dodge said expectation led to nothing but unrestrained heckling from all corners, and so, despite her hesitation, she has consented to joining them.

There is heckling either way, but recently, she’s begun to notice the different categories of it; she had never imagined that there could be intricacies in such things, but it’s rather like the difference between hearing a conversation from the hallway and being a participant in it.

Not that she will be telling Phoenix Wright as much.

"I’m telling you, you’re both looking at this all wrong," he drawls, kicking his feet up onto his coffee table—purely because it infuriates Franziska, she’s sure. "Think about it: these people are falling over themselves trying to be part of your big day, right?"

"Right," Maya says.

"Falling all over me, more like," Miles puts in as he walks in with his tea, frowning at Wright’s outstretched legs. "Wright."

Wright holds out a bit longer, raised eyebrow and terrible posture aimed at her little brother like a weapon, and then—he doesn’t deflate so much as relax, his fabricated spikes and barriers retreating. It’s a wonder he continues to try. No one believes any longer that he’s the same man he was a few years ago. They are none of them the same as they were then.

Once Miles has settled on the couch beside Wright—she has been told to call him Nick, but she is in no hurry to comply—the conversation, regrettably, falls right back into place.

She is tired of thinking about it. She has thought of nothing else for two days.

"That’s not the point," Wright goes on. "The point is, you have how many fancy venues to tour absolutely for free? How many caterers that want to impress you? You’re in the lap of luxury. You should be living it up, not sitting here on this sticky old office couch."

"Hey, that’s my sister’s couch you’re talking about!" Maya accuses, frowning, but then she rocks back in her seat. "Oh my god, you’re right."

"Told you it was sticky," Wright says, just as Trucy adds:

"He’s always Wright!"

Franziska snorts into her espresso and steadfastly avoids the ensuing attempts at eye contact.

"Fran, we could be saying yes to everyone." Maya’s eyes are wide and shining with the kind of awe that makes Franziska fear for her spare time and her wallet.

"Absolutely not. Neither of us has time for that."

"Um, for the chance to try eight different caterers’ offerings? I could make time."

She opens her mouth to argue, but Miles cuts her off.

"You have been sitting on the maximum allowed accrual of paid time off for the past four years. The district does not fall apart when you're off-site with Interpol. It will not fall apart if you take a few half-days off to plan your wedding."

Pearl squeaks, looking up from where Trucy has been painting her nails. She raises her hands instinctively, smearing robin's egg blue across the backs of her fingers. "So then… you really might go on Sesame Street?" she asks, and the Wright side of the room erupts in what Franziska feels is an entirely disproportionate amount of noise for two people.

"You were asked to go on Sesame Street?" Trucy has smeared polish on her cheek in her haste to rejoin the conversation. "Oh my god. Me and Pearly used to watch that all the time when I was really little. Troupe Gramarye was even on it once, before I was born! You should see if they have any need for a guest magician! I can always use a chance to grow my brand."

"Hint, hint," Wright laughs. "You know, back in my day, they only invited guests who could, like, sing and stuff." He narrows his eyes. "I know Maya can't sing. Are you gonna tell us you're secretly the lead singer of a punk band or something?"

"Karmic Circle!" Maya contributes, ever eager to go along with nonsense. "They only perform once a month, and they don't advertise the location."

"Really?" Pearl asks, eyes somehow wider still.

"No," Franziska says curtly, and Pearl's minute flinch shames her. She tries to amend it by joking, "I prefer to leave the performances to Prosecutor Gavin. He is enough of a showboat for the entire office."

Giggling nervously, Pearl looks to Maya as if for final confirmation.

Maya deflates dramatically. "Yeah, sadly, no serenades for me. I'm stuck settling for all her other talents."

The grin that creeps over her face must be even more overtly mischievous to those who can see her head-on, because Miles Edgeworth chokes on his tea and Wright makes an expression that weds panic and glee in unholy union.

"Maya, we don’t need to know about—"

"Hand massages?" Maya asks innocently.

Franziska smirks. She does give an excellent hand massage.

Miles clears his throat. He’s holding up his phone, which is unusual; he’s always the first among them to point out that they are gathered together to spend time with one another. "If I may interject… the original missive from that program was as follows:

‘Dear Mr. Edgeworth,

We understand that a member of your office is approaching an important milestone in her personal life. Please pass on our congratulations!

We are writing to you with what we hope will be a mutually beneficial opportunity. As you may know, our program, Sesame Street, is designed to support holistic education. As part of our programming, we include information about simple academic matters such as counting and spelling as well as information about various industries and terms children might hear adults discussing around them. We like to think of our program as a place to demystify concepts that might be scary, such as death (see: Farewell, Mr. Hooper) and other struggles families may face (see: Karli).

Our viewers’ families have felt the impact of the legal system’s collapse as surely those working within it. We know, however, that some of the systems in place are designed to protect us all. Likewise, we know that you have made excellent strides toward a more honest and organized prosecutorial team in your district. Further, I myself have seen firsthand how difficult it can be to undo negative public opinion.

You probably don’t remember me—it’s been many years now. That said, if you believe Ms. von Karma and her fiancée would consent, our studio would be interested in the following:

Hosting their wedding, including all space and refreshments
Arranging meet-and greets with any of our talent

In exchange for their appearance in one of our upcoming episodes where we will:
Interview them both about their occupations
Provide them opportunities to demonstrate some aspects of their occupations
Discuss their status as a high-profile same-sex couple (in a lighthearted and non-invasive manner)

I am contacting you directly because, to be honest, I am still a bit afraid of Ms. von Karma. Please don’t tell her that. In fact, don’t bring this to her attention at all if you think it would bother her, OK? Thanks.

Warm regards,

Penny Nichols.’"

He clears his throat again and returns his phone to the table, where he sets it facedown. "Well?"

"Penny Nichols?" Wright asks, laughing again. "Wow, she’s really made her way around, huh?"

"Who is that?" Franziska snaps. No one has said outright that they fear her in a fair while, and she’s still raw from having upset Pearl earlier. "Not the foolish girl from that horrid Moozilla debacle."

"That’s her," Miles confirms. "Wright and I knew her from some of her earlier work. She’s quite capable, as I recall."

"Fran," Maya says, turning to face her with that look, the wide eyes and bitten lip that invariably do her in. "It’s been a long time since Kurain had any positive coverage, too. I don’t trust daytime talk shows to do that, but this…"

"And how many people get to get married on TV?" Trucy asks. "That sounds so cool. Even if it’s on a kids’ show. Actually, maybe that’s even cooler? You could be somebody’s first brush with queer representation!"

Maya makes a noise like a deflating balloon. "We could literally change somebody’s life, Fran."

That’s a losing battle if she's ever encountered one. Trucy’s phrasing may be a bit… blunt, but Franziska knows that Maya spent her entire childhood and early adulthood believing there was something wrong with her. She isn’t particularly keen on having a private moment of her life put on display, but she knows too well that if they reject all offers, it will only look like they have something to hide. Besides, it sounds like this particular offer will take care of all the planning in one fell swoop, rendering moot the earlier discussion about taking time off.

There is a roomful of eyes on her, varying degrees of hope and apprehension flickering in them.

She takes a deep breath.

Manfred von Karma hated children’s television programming. He’d insisted that the simplicity of concepts and the flashy, bright colors would dull her senses, that the silly songs would interfere with her ability to memorize complex information. She had agreed with him, especially once Miles Edgeworth had entered her life, determined to be wiser and more mature than her little brother at every step.

Miles Edgeworth still carries a chipped, dented keychain bearing the likeness of a character from children’s television. He carries, also, two lifelong best friends made because of a shared interest in the same. Miles Edgeworth thought this request worth bringing to her attention.

She sips her espresso, cold now and more acidic for the loss of heat. The grimace she makes causes everyone to look away, assuming her answer, and it’s that, more than anything, that cements her decision.

"Under one condition," she begins, voice as neutral as she can make it when she can barely stop herself from trembling with an unfamiliar rush of nerves. "If Maya is in agreement, then I will… consent to this arrangement under one condition: Trucy and Pearl will join us as the wedding party in any roles they choose."

The shrieks and clatters seem to come from everywhere, but the warmth that envelops her could only come from the sudden appearance of Maya in her lap, arms tight around her neck as she whispers, "Thank you."

If the rest of the afternoon is wasted—no, spent—on Trucy and Pearl queueing up old clips from the blasted show, she resolves to view it as equivalent to pretrial investigations.

They do go on record with a couple of legitimate outlets via video conference to prove their identities: yes, they will be married; no, they don't yet have a date planned; no, they do not have any further details they wish to share.

Time passes, whole weeks of it during which Franziska is allowed to forget about the leak and subsequent muck-up, and then—

"The official contract is ready for you both to sign," Miles says, lingering in the doorway of her office. "I would be glad to act as witness, if you'll allow it."

"How are you going to witness anything if you can't even make it past the doorway?" she wonders aloud, beckoning him inside. Even then, he hesitates. She understands. This had been a difficult office to inherit, and Miles had spent far more time within it than she had when it belonged to her father. "Miles Edgeworth. Please have a seat."

She rounds her desk to join him on the visitors' side, hoping that the lack of a barrier between them will ease his worries. She remembers countless lectures about the power to be gained simply from organizing one's space in a certain way, but she has never been taught how to encourage comfort instead. For that, she can only rely on what she's learned from Maya and that fool Phoenix Wright. They both meet their clients face-to-face, eye-to-eye. She's not certain that she'll ever be able to do the same for the victory-hungry plaintiffs who cross her threshold, but for her brother, at least, she is willing to try.

He joins her, crossing his legs and resting the clipboard against his knee. His shoulders don’t stop shifting for several seconds; he’s every bit as uncomfortable as she is.

Good, she would have thought once. Now…

"There was a woman," she begins, "who worked on the team I shadowed a few years ago. Natasha."

Miles’ brow furrows, a sure sign that he’s failed to follow her non sequitur. As he should; she’s hardly been forthcoming about her time with Interpol. "Franziska… It’s quite normal to have doubts before a large commitment. Or so I hear. But-"

She scoffs. "Fool. This is not a confession of infidelity. Further, when it comes to Maya Fey, I do not have any doubts." She lets the words fall, only recognizing the weight of them when they reach her ears. They’re true, but they are more, somehow, than she’d expected them to be.

She crosses her legs in the opposite direction. She is making herself too available already without the addition of mirroring her brother. "Natasha was an advocate for victims of violent crimes. She had a way of setting people at ease that I… I envied," she admits. "Even outside of her work, people spoke freely to her. And in her work… let us say that she never had trouble coaxing a name and occupation out of a witness. I had not thought of her in some time, but for a moment, I thought that if this were her office, even you would not have hesitated in the doorway. In a way, she is the reason I returned here."

"Oh?" He leans forward, still frowning. "I was under the impression that my invitation had something to do with that."

Franziska does not bother to call him a fool again. "I might have said no, if not for Natasha. Rather, if being around her hadn’t thrown my flaws into such sharp relief. I do not have the temperament for the work she does, nor the work Agent Lang does."

"Is that a flaw?"

"I wonder."

They fall quiet for a moment, and she sees Miles gearing up to clear his throat: palm curled, hand raised, head slightly turned. He’s a man of many tells. It’s no wonder at all that Phoenix Wright finds some comfort and predictability with him. Franziska would be lying if she said she did not also look to her little brother for stability. Better to remain silent than to tell that particular truth.

Still, she cuts him off before he can call attention to the awkwardness. "What I mean to say is that I do not want this office to continue his legacy any more than I wish to continue carrying it myself. I was not suited to remaining with Interpol, but I am suited to act as part of this team. Manfred von Karma was not." Once, maybe, before whatever madness had entangled him, but it’s not worth speculating.

"That’s a long way of saying that I should feel welcome to barge into your office," Miles says, watching her carefully.

"Barge at your own risk," she warns darkly, "but my invitations are always genuine."

"Understood." He clears his throat anyway, and she hopes her face does not betray the triumphant amusement she feels at the sound. "Well. Ms. Fey should be here soon. I contacted her shortly before coming here, and she was already in town. Something about-"

"A cookware sale," she finishes, remembering the ad Maya had forwarded her earlier in the morning.

"I wasn’t aware that she cooked," Miles admits, looking alarmed.

"She doesn’t," Franziska assures him. "But Pearl Fey has taken quite a shine to the culinary arts. She is considering formal training," she adds with no small amount of pride. That had been her idea, and it still pleases her that Pearl is taking it under advisement. "And they both enjoy window shopping." An activity she’s happy to let them pursue without her. She cannot fathom their joint excitement about looking at useless things they’ll never buy. She’d offered use of her credit card the one time she had joined them, and they had both insisted that buying things wasn’t the point.

"Well. That’s good."

Silence overtakes them again, but before any further throat-clearing occurs, a familiar voice winds its way down the hallway. "Oh man! I can’t believe the elevator beat me up here."

"Um, Master Maya, are you OK?"

"Of course I’m not OK! I ran up the stairs just to get demoralized by a machine." There’s a thud, and then— "Ow!"

"I think you probably shouldn’t kick the elevator doors," Pearl says, obviously trying to whisper.

Franziska’s face is hot with the attempt to hold back her laughter; Miles is faring no better, or perhaps he’s scandalized about the Feys’ abuse of the building.

She stands, and she only allows the smile on her face to show when she has turned fully away from Miles. An old habit. She’s been told they die hard.

"Hey Fran! Oh, Edgeworth!"

"‘Oh’ indeed," Edgeworth says, not bothering at all to hide his own smile. It’s still strange, sometimes, to see how her little brother has grown. "Allow me once again to offer my congratulations."

"Geez, you know you’ve said that every single time you’ve seen me for the past, like, eight months?"

"And I have meant it every single time," Miles assures Maya, accepting a brief hug when she leans over him. "Welcome, Ms. Fey," he adds, pointing his chin toward Pearl, who has rushed to the window.

Pearl jumps as if sensing that all eyes are on her. "Oh! S-sorry. Um, hi, Mr. Edgeworth. Hi Ms. Um. Franziska." She shuffles her feet in sandals that are just half a size too big for her. "I like your window. I don’t really get to see the city like this."

"Look as long as you like," Franziska says, hoping that it will be taken as a welcome rather than a dismissal. One day, she will learn to demonstrate the difference more clearly. And one day, perhaps, Pearl will expect the former as her default rather than the latter.

"Soooo, what’s up with the secret last-minute meeting?" Maya bounces where she’s standing, color still high in her cheeks from her trek up the stairs. "Wait. Tell me I’m not being accused of something. I swear we only thought about swimming in the fountain! We didn’t really go in!" She pauses, adding under her breath, "At least not for very long."

Miles pinches the bridge of his nose. "I am going to pretend that I did not hear that. The news I have is somewhat better, though it will still require your signature." He hands over the clipboard—to Maya!—and waits for her to look over the documents.

Franziska edges closer to him and kicks his foot gently. As the lawyer in the relationship, surely she should have been given the first chance to read them.

Maya looks blankly at the pages, flipping through them one at a time with her bottom lip between her teeth. "Uh, OK, so I think it’s safe to say that a lot of this is over my head! Can I get the English version, please?"

"The contract is in English," Miles responds, confused. "Ah, no, you mean—I see. The long and short of it is that you agree to have your likeness used for the purposes described—in this case, an episode of the television show and any relevant promotional materials—and that you agree not to disclose the content of the episode before it is aired. There is also a list of catering items, the guest list, and a list of rules of conduct for on-set behavior."

Franziska could have told her that. If she’d been allowed to preview the clipboard’s contents, that is.

Maya narrows her eyes and looks between the two of them. "Are there—"

"Sliders," Miles answers smoothly.

"Good, OK. Not what I was asking though. Are there any rules I need to know about?"

"Like fountains you shouldn’t swim in?" Miles asks archly, and Franziska snorts.

"I suspect that we should both be aware of all of the rules," Franziska points out, holding out her hand for the clipboard.

"Yeah, that way you can keep me in line," Maya says, taking Franziska’s hand and pulling her closer instead of handing over the papers. "You didn’t even say hi when I got here," she complains over the sound of Miles Edgeworth coughing delicately.

"Hello," Franziska says, giving in and relaxing against Maya’s side. It’s good to be close to her, like it always is.

"And…?"

She chuckles, meeting Maya’s expectant gaze and leaning toward her for a kiss.

"That’s more like it," Maya murmurs against her lips. She rests their heads together for a moment or two before straightening her posture again and examining the clipboard once more. "So! All we have to do is sign this, and then the date is set? For real?"

"For real," Franziska confirms, swallowing around the lump that forms in her throat at the thought.

"Finally!" Pearl puts in, turning away from the window to cross her arms at them. "I thought you were gonna keep putting it off forever."

Franziska wants to argue that several months and forever are significantly different measures of time, but the knowledge that Pearl has wanted to take part in a wedding since childhood keeps her from expressing it. "According to this, ‘forever’ ends on… August 18th."

"Wrong!" Maya chirps, leaning into Franziska’s side again. "That’s when forever begins. Right?"

With a sharp breath, Franziska reminds herself once again that people are not always literal in their words. It will do no one any good to point out that the rest of their lives and forever are also two significantly different measures of time.

"Yes," she says simply, and Miles’ clear and rising impatience does nothing to stop the warmth that fills her when Maya sways even closer.

August arrives, as months tend to, and it brings with it a greater amount of stress than Franziska knew she could feel.

She has seen her sister nearly die. She has seen her brother nearly convicted of murder. She has seen her father actually convicted of murder. She has been shot.

None of it compares to this.

The studio is abuzz with more crew members than she count; it's loud, disorganized, and overwhelming. There isn't a soul she recognizes in the sea of faces aside from the woman beside her and the guide a few steps ahead of them.

Maya reaches for her hand and squeezes, keeping her moving through the ruckus until they reach a smaller, quieter area containing someone she does recognize.

"Ms. Nichols!" Maya beats her to the greeting, hastening their approach like the woman is an old friend she can't wait to greet. It is a testament to how frequently this happens that Franziska is able to match the new pace instantly instead of stumbling along.

"Ms. Fey, Ms. von Karma," she replies coolly. "It's good to see you both again. I'm so pleased you decided to accept our offer."

"You made a really good case for yourself," Maya tells her. "But there was some peer pressure at work, too. A couple of kiddos with some fond memories of the show."

"Oh? That's good to hear. What about the two of you? Who was your favorite monster growing up? I'd be happy to arrange a meeting." Her eyes seem lit from within as if the prospect genuinely thrills her. It's a variation of the same look she's seen on certain reinstated defense attorneys.

The moment she realizes she has no answer feels like capsizing.

The casual way Penny Nichols has asked the question makes it sound as if there should be a simple answer. Further, Franziska has done her reading on the subject; she would not allow herself to remain uninformed about such a crucial facet of their plans. She has read about each character's history and role, has even learned about their speech patterns and their friendships, but she has not evaluated them with the intent of finding a favorite.

She is unprepared, and it is the worst feeling the world has to offer.

Except that, beside her, Maya is swaying a little bit, the way she does when considering a topic change to distract from her own discomfort. Maya is still holding her hand, squeezing more tightly still, and—

Of course. Maya Fey does not have a favorite childhood monster, either. Neither of them had known any fictional ones.

"Big Bird," Franziska blurts, remembering Pearl's dreamlike wonder that first night. "But please save the meeting for our… associates."

Maya snorts, leaning into Franziska's side and dropping her hand to wrap an arm around her instead. "My cousin and my niece," she clarifies. "They were really excited to meet, uh, Big Bird." She glances up at Franziska as if to check, and Franziska smiles back, relief allowing her to lean in closer.

If not for the continued dull burn of humiliation at her lack of knowledge, she could almost—almost—forget about the setting entirely.

Penny Nichols laughs quietly, mouth hidden behind her clipboard. "OK. We'll set that up when your, uh, associates are ready."

The sharpest parts of her coil up, ready to lash out at having attention called to her awkward phrasing. There's a litany of harsh rebukes sounding in her mind, but ultimately, that is where they stay. Spending time with Maya—and the Wrights, not that she will tell them as much—has made it infinitely easier to spot the kindness that softens mocking into teasing.

Ms. Nichols has a kind way about her. Franziska would have made every attempt to crush it out of her had they met in court years ago.

"So! We wanted to meet with you today to give you an idea of what to expect and to tell you a little about the structure of the episode. We try to knock out filming with our guests in as few days as possible so as not to take up too much of your time, and, well, that's even more important for you two! A rehearsal is one thing, but we can't have you getting married five times just to make sure we get the right shots, you know?"

"I mean…" Maya begins, nudging Franziska with her shoulder.

"I would like to get married once," Franziska replies firmly. "I would like it to be—natural. Genuine." She feels Maya suck in a breath and hopes she hasn't misspoken.

"That's what we want, too," Ms. Nichols confirms. "For the whole episode, really. That's why we only have a loose script for you to follow."

Her stomach sinks again. How is she meant to participate in this without clear instruction?

Ms. Nichols hands them each a stapled bundle of paper.

One-handed, Franziska struggles for a grip that will allow her to hold hers somewhat flat. As it folds over at the top, she grimaces and looks longingly over at the pile of clipboards on a nearby table.

"So! I'll take you through it," Ms. Nichols says. "Come on through to the conference room and have a seat."

Penny Nichols is a liar and a scammer.

What Franziska holds in her hands could not be called a script even by a toddler with a vocabulary of only twenty other words to choose from. It is, at best, an outline. She personally finds it closer to the written version of a deconstructed meal: messy, arrogant, and requiring far too much work on the part of the consumer. It weaves between segments with only the briefest transitions, which her speedreading does not allow her to process until far too late. The dialogue is specified only when key concepts need to be communicated. Otherwise, it is imbecilic, vague stage direction.

This… this is not something she can memorize.

"This is so cool," Maya murmurs beside her. "I don’t even have to remember that many lines! I can just, like, hang out."

"Yep!" Ms. Nichols says brightly. "Like I said, what you’ve got there is the big picture. You don’t need to worry about most of it, but I figured it’s always nice to have context."

Franziska fails to understand how knowing that her segment with Elmo falls between a musical cartoon about the letter O and a stop-motion video of the number 9 being built from pasta is supposed to provide her anything in the way of context.

"Yeah!! Tell ya what, this is gonna be way better than being on the witness stand. Whew."

At least Maya seems to be enjoying herself. Enough so, in fact, that she continues chatting with Ms. Nichols, making it all the more difficult for Franziska to take in those parts of her scene that bother to offer some guidance.

They remain for nearly another hour before finally parting ways with their host.

Maya takes her arm as they leave the room, and Franziska collapses against her in preemptive relief. Perhaps Maya has just been putting on a front for an old friend. She must be just as uncomfortable with the ambiguity.

"I’m so glad we’re doing this," Maya gushes.

Her happiness typically warms Franziska. She has a way of making it contagious; something about her smile or the light in her eyes or the way she becomes just a that little bit more prone to casual touch—

With all of those in full swing, it’s clear: Maya is genuinely happy with this turn of events. The realization forms a dam against the complaints and worries that have been building all day. She cannot drag Maya down with her own concerns, not over something so trivial. She will memorize her lines—even if she first has to write them herself—and she will deliver them perfectly, and then this will be over.

Though it doesn’t really soothe her completely this time, Franziska allows herself to sink into Maya’s enthusiasm and forget the rest.

It isn’t easy to put it out of her mind throughout the next several weeks, but she manages—at least, when she isn’t studying the script. The document given to her by Penny Nichols has undergone a few changes in Franziska’s care. Namely, she has written out the specific lines she will say during each scene and carefully taped them into place.

The creation of a clearly defined speaking role offers a familiar certainty, and it is that certainty that she brings with her to their first rehearsal session.

They get very few, and she knows very well that she must execute her role flawlessly. She cannot disappoint Maya. She cannot disappoint Miles. She cannot risk Pearl's meeting with the odd yellow bird. She will conduct herself admirably.

Before the rehearsal, though, is the fitting. She’d had not time to decide what style she would prefer to wear, but she’s been assured that the costume team will work some sort of magic. Once, she would have snapped that she does not believe in magic, and that’s still true to some extent. Her willingness to recognize such things is limited to the instances she’s seen with her own eyes—limited, that is, to the two most amazing women she knows, who stand out not for their connection to some other realm but for their ability to connect with the living.

In short: "I’ll see that when I believe it," she’d told Penny Nichols over the phone the week prior.

Today, Ms. Nichols smirks at her when they all gather in the conference room. "Ms. von Karma, I hope you’re ready to believe in magic. Go ahead and follow Vera. Ms. Fey, Nita Lynn will take you to yours." She indicates first an oddly familiar woman with waves of bright blue hair and second, a shorter, older woman with the roundest bun atop her head that Franziska has ever seen held in place with mesh netting.

"Aw, we don’t get to try them on together?" Maya pouts. "I thought all that stuff about bad luck was just a load of bull— uhh, nonsense."

"Do you really want to take the chance?" Ms. Nichols asks. "There are times to test luck, and then there are weddings and performances. Not very compatible. Go on! I’ll be here when you’re done."

Her spine stiffens. Magic is one thing, but luck is another, and it’s not to be trifled with. Though she’s not going to chance it, it’s too difficult to ignore Maya’s pout. Once they step out of the room, Franziska reaches for her hand before she can follow the person with the pincushion hair and steps in close. "I’ve never been a patient woman," she murmurs, "but for this, for you, I would wait another year to see you if it meant nothing could go wrong."

"Geez, only a year?" Maya teases, eyes sparkling and lips curved upward. "What if it was like, seven? What if I break a mirror in the changing room today?"

"Then I will wait," Franziska insists, stealing a kiss while she’s smiling. "As long as it takes. And you will still be the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen." She kisses Maya again, undaunted by Vera scribbling in her sketchbook just behind them and Nita Lynn clearing her throat off to Maya’s right. Her heart is pounding, but she can’t bring herself to be embarrassed. "Though I must ask that you do try not to break any mirrors."

"I’ll try," Maya promises, sliding her arms around Franziska’s neck and kissing her quite a bit more soundly. "I can’t believe we’re doing this, Fran. I can’t believe you said yes."

"Only a fool would have refused."

Vera taps on her shoulder and holds up a drawing of a clock.

She sighs. "Yes, fine. Maya…"

Maya winks as she lets go. "I’ll see you in a jiffy! Maaaybe two jiffies if it’s really complicated."

Even swallowing hard around the sudden lump in her throat doesn’t keep a laugh from bubbling out. "I love you, Maya Fey."

"I love you too. Now go on! Don’t keep poor Vera waiting. Poor thing’s gonna run through her whole sketchbook, and then how will she draw our portraits later?"

Franziska opens her mouth, intending to dispute the notion of having their portraits done, but Vera’s face lights up, and she scribbles a quick smile on her next page. Something about the way she conducts herself reminds Franziska of Pearl in the first several months they’d known each other; a delicate walk between enthusiasm and docility that Franziska herself is grateful to have been spared.

"Very well. I will see you soon."

Maya winks and trots away to catch up with Nita Lynn, and Franziska watches her go until Vera makes another small noise to get her attention.

"You are Vera Misham, yes?"

"Yes," Vera answers, but it’s quiet, nearly reluctant, and Franziska doesn’t miss the minute flinch, the way her shoulders hunch, the way her grip tightens and leaves her white-knuckling her sketchbook. "They’re all originals," she blurts, the loudest she’s spoken all day.

It sounds very much like I am not my father. Franziska has learned to pick out that particular sentiment above all others.

"Of course," she says awkwardly. "I did not intend to suggest otherwise. It’s only—Trucy Wright speaks of you sometimes, but I don’t believe we’ve met." All the times she made Pearl nervous have come to something, at least; Franziska von Karma has learned to recover from conversational missteps. Miracles will never cease.

Her self-deprecating monologue comes to an abrupt halt when Vera unlocks and opens the door to a large dressing room.

There are three options awaiting her, and it takes a moment to remember that Vera had, in fact, said all.

"You can try on… whatever you like. And if you don’t like any, um…" Vera’s words seem to disappear again, and she stands stiffly near the door, fingers moving rhythmically where they’re clenched around the cover of her sketchbook.

"I will try them all," Franziska assures her, moving toward the selection. "Tell me about the designs while I dress," she—requests, or at least attempts to request. It comes out, as her words often do, more demanding than intended. "If you like."

She takes the suit first; it’s a blue so deep it appears black save for places where it catches the light and gleams seafoam and azure. It’s stunning; there’s no denying that. It will probably perform well on film with carefully arranged lighting. The fabric seems lightweight and sturdy.

As she dresses behind the screen, she hears Vera begin to speak.

"Well, um, you didn’t… put much in your preferences, so I had to use, um, outside sources. Mostly… mostly court appearances and old articles. I thought that… you looked comfortable in blue."

Franziska isn’t sure she knows what that means. It certainly isn’t anything she’s ever put much thought into. Fashion in general is efficiency. Routine. Her wardrobe has never felt limited despite the lack of significant variety. Yes, her courtroom attire is predictable. Yes, the handful of casual outfits she owns tends toward a darker palette. It's what she was raised with, and she has never had the time to waste on worrying about something so pointless as changing her style. The exception is the growing collection of shirts she has borrowed from Maya and forgotten to return, but she dearly hopes no one has seen her wearing those.

Perhaps that's why, when she stands and looks at herself in the mirror and takes in the sleek pantsuit with its starched white collar, she doesn't see a bride. She sees a von Karma preparing to prosecute. She must look quietly for too long, because Vera speaks again.

"What, um, do you think?"

"It looks like something I would wear to court," she admits. It sounds too blunt. "It is beautiful. But not, I think, right for the occasion."

"Do… you want me to bring you one of the others?"

Perhaps it's unreasonable to continue comparing them, but something in Vera's tone once again reminds her of Pearl.

She walks out of the dressing room instead of responding, still wearing the suit. Pearl always takes satisfaction in seeing others take their first bite of something she's made. Perhaps, by that token, Vera would take satisfaction from seeing her intended wearer in the clothing she created. And—perhaps—Franziska is learning to take some satisfaction of her own in bringing these small joys to others.

"Oh!" Vera says upon seeing her, picking up her sketchbook immediately. Her eyes flick between the page and Franziska's form for several long moments.

Long enough for Franziska to grow impatient without an explanation. She shifts and sighs, now feeling scrutinized and vulnerable in a way she never does at her own tailor. Vera's gaze is that of a woman finding flaws, and it makes Franziska want to cross her arms and shield herself.

"OK, I see," Vera murmurs eventually, nodding to herself. "Thank you, um, for letting me… take some notes. It's—" As if deciding it's not worth it to reach for the words, she turns her book around for Franziska to see.

On the page is a nearly perfect representation of herself, complete with sour expression and surrounded by little arrows connecting tiny, neat words to the image. Vera has marked things like "taper sleeves more" and "color unclear here," and not a single one of the annotations mentions Franziska, her body, or her posture. She feels a breath release that she hadn't realized she'd been holding, and she feels at once more at home in this little room. It may be that she and Vera understand each other after all.

"I'm still… learning about, um, original pieces. Forgeries were… easy for me."

Taking a new path is always harder. Diverging from a trail cut by one's father is harder still. Vera does not need Franziska to tell her as much, so she chooses not to do her the disservice. "It is a very nice suit," she manages instead, knowing that she has to say something.

"But not… perfect."

Her shoulders square up again, and everything in her aches to tell this young woman that nothing is perfect, but that would require a conviction Franziska herself does not yet possess. No matter how many times Maya reminds her that perfection is subjective, no matter how many times she says, "perfect is boring anyway, Fran. It doesn't change! It doesn't try new things! I've never been perfect at anything. You should try for ‘decent’ or ‘great’ sometime. Always works for me!" and no matter how much she repeats the notion to herself in Maya's absence, there's a splinter she just can't excise.

"The others, then," she says curtly, nodding and taking the jumpsuit with her as she retreats behind the screen.

It's easy enough to remove the suit. It is infinitely more difficult to climb into the next article. Jamming her legs into the outlandishly tight pants causes her to crumple the train in a way that makes her wince. She gets her arms into the sleeves and finds that they, too, offer very little give—so little, in fact, that she cannot reach behind herself to fasten the back. She feels trapped, both by the clinging material and by the sense of having a duty she cannot complete. "Vera," she calls, doing her level best to keep her voice measured through the building panic.

Vera appears beside her and pulls up the zipper with ease, which in turn removes some of the tension in the fabric along her arms. "I think, um, this one's a no."

Franziska finally turns to get a good look for herself. She has seen the style before and found it intriguing enough. On certain others, it's been quite flattering and eye-catching, and, in truth, when she's had time to imagine walking down the aisle at all, she had imagined something quite similar to this. It's modern, bold, and unique, white with lavender flowers embroidered along the train's edge that fade into pale blue before the pattern ends smoothly. The bodysuit has a bit of the same needlework, moving from her left shoulder and wrapping around the back to her right hip. Like the suit, it's stunning craftsmanship. She wants to argue with Vera, partially because she'd been sold on the style and partially just because Vera has told her no. That said…

"I feel like a chicken," she admits.

Vera giggles, hiding it immediately behind her book. "You don't look like one. You just… don't look comfortable."

"I wanted to like it. It's lovely. Did you do this by hand?"

"Mm-hm. It was… a lot of fun, so… I'm glad you got to try it."

She cannot imagine finding fun in needlework any more than she can imagine finding it in chopping vegetables, but a year and a half ago, she also wouldn't have found it in swimming, in poker, in sitting on Maya's stoop and watching the world go by. When she considers that fun and love seem to go hand-in-hand, she thinks it's no wonder at all that her experience in fun had long been limited to working with horses.

"I hope you will find a suitable use for it. Shall we try the last one?"

Vera nods, and this time, Franziska allows her to bring it, to help her out of the jumpsuit and then into the dress.

Her breath catches when she glances up; Vera is beaming, and the other woman in the mirror looks like someone who is ready to be married. The dress is a soft cream color with hints of champagne in the spiraling, delicate embroidery across the bodice and along the sleeves. The skirt is long with a heavy drape that gives her an oddly secure feeling. There are other adornments that she isn't even sure she could name, but what stands out the most is the way it fits on her body. It accentuates curves she is rarely even cognizant of having. It displays an amount of skin on her chest and back that she might once have considered scandalous; now, it feels tasteful. On someone else, it might even look elegant.

"It's optional, but… you can attach the frontmost layer of the train to the wrists… if you want."

She tries it, and the drag it puts on her arm movements feels grounding; an entirely different sensation than the restrictive feeling of the last garment's sleeves. It also makes her look… yes, elegant is the right word, and if it's egotistical to apply it to herself, she'll accept that criticism. It is quite nearly… "It's exceptional," she tells Vera, unable to make the final step to perfect. She won't burden Vera with the weight of that word no matter how true it feels.

The train itself, when she turns to look, features the same fine coils and swirls as the body is the dress on its outermost muslin layer, and a layer of silk beneath it echoes the pattern in thicker lines and bolder swoops. It isn't excessively bulky or heavy when she tries to move, but it certainly has a noticeable impact on her sense of balance, which—

"Shoes?" she asks, hoping that she will not have to carry the dress' added weight on stilettos.

"Oh! I'm… glad you liked the dress best, actually. These shoes were my favorite." Vera disappears briefly and returns with… piles of lace. "They're a little complicated, but…"

They certainly look complicated, at least until she takes the one Vera offers her and gets a better look. "They tie at the back, yes?" She indicates the wide ribbon loosely holding together the two edges of a lace cylinder together. At the bottom of the cylinder is a sole with a modest heel.

"Mmhm. Like… a corset."

"I see." It is excessively difficult, she finds, to lace them up while standing in the full dress, so she once again permits Vera's help when it's offered, and soon she stands before the mirror again. With the length of the dress as it is, there's little to be seen but the toe, but the lace boots somehow feel correct.

There's a bit more to the overall wedding ensemble, she knows, but this feels like a solid start. "Will you also be doing my hair and makeup?" The note of hope in her voice is embarrassing, and she tries to clamp down on it.

"Oh, um, I'm not… very good at that, unfortunately. But I promise you're in really good hands. I can… show you the plans, if you'd like?"

Her heart flutters, nerves rising again at the thought of leaving this interaction and beginning another unfamiliar one. "Yes. Please."

The concepts Vera shows her are simple enough: makeup to accentuate her features and stand up to the studio lights, and hair braided into an updo studded with champagne-hued flowers.

"I don't wear my hair up," she declares. "Ever." Just the sight of the drawing has the back of her neck prickling uncomfortably. It's a feeling she associates with being watched. Being vulnerable. Displaying a weak point. She is going to be doing quite enough of all three without the help of a hairstyle she won't enjoy wearing.

"We can work with that. I'll call Rhea in if you're ready, and they'll work with you to find something that suits you better."

"Thank you." It is on the tip of her tongue to ask Vera to stay. It's ridiculous. She has not even known this woman for two hours; there is no excuse for depending on her. Before she can banish the notion entirely—or, god forbid, speak it aloud—Vera speaks up again unexpectedly.

"Would… it be OK if I stayed? I'm trying to learn more about, um, the rest of costuming."

It rings as a lie; Vera is fiddling with her hands in a way entirely distinct from the way she clutched at her book before. It's almost as if she's repeatedly attempting to keep them from moving upward, as one would to—ah. Even under her particular circumstances, the tendency to bite one's nails must make for a difficult habit to break. But why would she lie? She's certainly well within her rights to stay to ensure that the garments she created don't come to harm. There's no need to sell a story about wanting to learn skills that clearly don't interest her. Unless… unless it isn't her intent she's trying to hide. Did she see a spark of disappointment in Franziska's expression? If so, why not simply ask if Franziska would like her to stay?

The moment she thinks it, she realizes that, if Vera had asked that directly, Franziska would have felt pride-bound to reject the offer. This way, she can imagine that her affirmative is in some way helpful to Vera, making it excusable to agree. For as much time as she has spent thinking that she's known someone like Vera, she's failed to consider that Vera may in turn have known someone like her. Someone, perhaps, who kept her in the discomfort of suspense the way Franziska is now.

"That would be agreeable," she says first, and then, "I would like that very much."

Vera's smile is just as radiant then as it had been when she'd seen Franziska in the dress. "Me too."

Of all the things she had expected to happen today, making a friend was not even remotely on the list, but it seems to have happened just the same. She can only hope, as she settles in and submits to hair and makeup, that Maya is faring just as well.

A disturbing amount of time later, after tweaks and adjustments and reference photos by the dozens, she is handed back her own clothes, allowed to change into them, and whisked back down the hallway by a faintly humming Vera.

Maya is just as she left her, if with somewhat messy hair and a freshly polished radiance about her. …No, just as she left her is an accurate description. "Fran! Is that your final makeup? Holy shit."

Franziska’s hand flies to her own face as if she’ll be able to feel anything other than the thick layer of cosmetics preventing her from making contact with her own skin. She knows what it looks like, of course, having seen it in the photos she approved, but she hadn’t realized that Maya would react to it. For her part, Maya seems free of anything unusual. "I suppose it is. Is it—"

"Too much?" Maya preempts her, shaking her head and stepping up to take her hand. "You look really beautiful, that’s all. I mean, you always do, but like… in a way that makes all this feel really real. If you know what I mean."

She knows, at the very least, what Maya’s circular, stumbling manner of speaking means. If Franziska were to suggest that they find a broom closet to sneak into, Maya would not only say yes but would likely drag her there. The idea of being so overwhelmingly attractive to her—to anyone—is something Franziska still occasionally struggles to reconcile. It doesn’t feel nearly the same as being catcalled, though she’d worried at first that it would. It doesn’t feel, either, like being quietly ogled by others who were interested but polite enough or intimidated enough to keep their distance. It only feels warm and satisfying, like victory. Like pride.

There is no time for that, tempted though she is, as they’re soon shuffled off again, this time for the initial rehearsal.

"It’s OK to smile, Ms. von Karma!" someone calls for what must be the fourth time.

How, she wonders angrily, is she meant to smile when her lines aren’t being received as anticipated? Her very thorough history of the word "fiancée," delivered impeccably to the little red puppet with the orange nose, had gone down like a lead balloon, leaving the creature wavering uncertainly and edging away from her.

The same thing had happened when she had attempted a conversation with some shaggy blue carpet of a beast, and what frustrates her the very most is that she knows the puppeteers—muppeteers, she reminds herself, not wishing to be corrected yet again—are choosing deliberately to behave this way. She is not talking to strangely hairy children. She is talking to characters played by grown adults who cower pathetically behind them.

Her irritation escalates quickly under the hot lights and quicker still when she notices Maya having a much better time. Having thrown herself fully into the role she’s playing, Maya has charming, natural-sounding dialogues with each character they meet. No matter how she tries, Franziska cannot figure out how to follow her lead.

"Hi, Big Bird! We heard you might need some help!"

"Oh, I sure do, Miss Maya. You see, it’s my bear, Radar."

"Wow, where’d you get a bear radar? We could use that up in the mountains."

The big yellow bird, despite his distress only a moment ago, laughs.

Franziska does not. Franziska, rather, swallows stiffly and tightens her fists until she can feel her nails biting into her palms through her gloves.

"See, Fran? Big Bird thought my joke was funny." She grins, nudging Franziska with her elbow the same way she does when cajoling her into visiting Phoenix Wright or making a charitable donation to her favorite local bakery. "Maybe I should marry him instead."

Franziska doesn’t have time to be horrified; Penny Nichols appears from nowhere, shouting, "Ma’am, that bird is a child!" and pulling Maya aside.

"How was I supposed to know he’s only three!? He’s taller than me!"

"Reading the script might have helped!" Penny grouses.

"Pff, you think I had time to read that? We’re runnin’ on pure vibes," Maya claims, though Franziska knows she’s lying. They’d both made time to read the script. Franziska had simply made more time.

Much more time. She’d spent at least three times as long studying her script and making adjustments than Maya, and still, Maya is succeeding everywhere she fails. The characters engage with her. The muppeteers adore her—as they should—and even now that she’s caused a halt in the rehearsal, Penny is only shaking her head fondly. No one has had to remind Maya to smile or to speak more simply. Maya is able to convey how much she wants to be here with every expression, every movement.

Franziska… does not want to be here.

Quite suddenly, that truth hits her with its full force: she does not want to be here, and she cannot do this.

While Maya and Penny are still caught in conversation, she makes a strategic retreat.

She isn’t sure how long it takes before Maya finds her tucked away in the conference room, pacing like the last thylacine and feeling just as much a spectacle. With all her sharpest and most brittle parts on display, it's a wonder she doesn't lash out when Maya approaches.

"Fran? Was it something I said?" she wonders, coming in close enough that Franziska can't help but look at her.

She can't answer for a moment or two; she's not really sure what it is that's got her on edge. What she does know is that Maya is not—is never—the problem, so she shakes her head after a brief pause. "More like everything I said."

It’s enough to melt the barrier between them, and Maya steps forward the rest of the way, wrapping her arms around Franziska’s waist and leaning there. "You know I love you, right?"

Franziska narrows her eyes. That’s the kind of thing that usually precedes a statement she’ll like somewhat less. "Yes. And I love you."

"And I love watching you exist. Just the way you are. All the choices you make and the way you adapt and make the world work for you." Maya kisses her shoulder. "So please know that I’m not telling you how to do things, but…"

"But?" Franziska prods, her hands settling on Maya’s back. The contact is soothing, the way holding Maya always is. The warmth of her, the softness of the fabrics she prefers, the heather scent of her hair—they’re all it takes these days (most days) to smooth Franziska’s harsh edges.

"Well… I know the whole thing is a lot of pressure, don’t get me wrong, but I couldn’t help but think… well, it looked to me like that adapted script of yours was kind of working against you instead."

She doesn’t need to say anything for Maya to know that she agrees. The lack of argument, for them, is enough.

"I thought maybe if I cracked a few jokes, y’know, it might be a little easier. It worked at Nick’s! And I know you said it wasn’t anything I said, but I’m pretty sure I made it worse." Maya pulls back just far enough to look Franziska in the eye, face scrunched up in something that’s half-wince and half-smile. It’s wholly unattractive, and Franziska has never seen anything more beautiful.

"It was a bit like… almost as if you were another camera," she admits. "Or another of the actors."

Maya hums. "I can see that. I did commit pretty hard, huh?"

"It’s admirable. You can always find your way in a new endeavor. And I…"

"Just need a different road," Maya fills in, leaning in to kiss her cheek.

"Yes. But it all feels… silly." The whole thing is so innocuous on the surface that she can’t even get around to describing it as foolish.

"That’s because it is silly."

With a huff, she tries to withdraw, to cross her arms over her own chest instead of Maya’s back, but she’s held in place by the slightest bit of resistance. "I am not accustomed to it. But I want to make a good impression, truly. It would be good for the office, and I want it to be everything you’ve hoped for."

"What about what you’ve hoped for? And… what about making the impression of you that you want to make? I’m not marrying a scary lady. I’m marrying somebody who’s kind and thoughtful and funny when she wants to be. Somebody who knows how to take bad things and turn them around, and how to grow past the hard stuff and—you know what? Actually, I have an idea. If you’re up for it, I want to try again, but… I need to talk to some people first. What do you say?"

Trying again sounds exhausting, and she cannot properly evaluate Maya’s plan without further information. The part of her that wants to protest gets lost in dark, earnest eyes and the scent of the wind on a clear day in Kurain, somehow bottled just for Maya, and she finds herself nodding. "Yes."

"Sweet. You gonna be fine to wait here?" she asks, and at a second nod from Franziska, she pecks her on the lips. "OK, perfect! I’ll go check in, and when I get back, we’re outta here for the day. I’ll take you somewhere quiet," she promises with a wink, and then she practically skips out.

Franziska is well-versed enough to know that somewhere quiet means a hole-in-the-wall restaurant, but with the rush of nerves finally beginning to ebb, she’s feeling a bit hungry herself, and a detour to shake off the rest of the negativity before heading home sounds just about right.

Everything, she learns that evening, is going to be delayed by two entire days. Franziska isn’t sure what to make of that; being the source of inconvenience leaves her quietly burning from the inside out.

The only good thing to come out of it is that it becomes reasonable for her to go and stay in Kurain for those extra days, and even this is dulled by the announcement that Maya is needed for consultation. Secret consultation. "No Franziskas allowed!" Maya says cheerfully when she passes on the message. "I’ll be back tonight, but it might be pretty late. Pearly already said she’ll make dinner for you guys, so don’t worry about that!"

Dinner, which had been the very least of Franziska’s worries, suddenly rises to the top of her list as soon as Maya is out of sight. Dinner with Maya and Pearl is nothing new, and Pearl’s creations are consistently quite good these days. Dinner with just Pearl…

It’s not as bad as it could be. It’s quiet, but it isn’t the same quiet Franziska recalls from dinners at the von Karma estate. Their attempts to break the silence, though infrequent and focused largely on the meal itself, are at least amicable:

"The balance of spice and sweetness is very pleasing."

"Thank you. Are the sweet potatoes cooked, um, to your liking?"

"Yes. The texture is appealing."

It goes on as such until Franziska excuses herself; the wrong-footedness feels so large inside her that she’s certain it must be seeping from her pores, on full display for the small young woman with the large brown eyes seated across from her. She makes her way to Maya’s bathroom and checks in the mirror, compelled to make sure it isn’t true.

There’s nothing there, of course, aside from the bags under her eyes. The only thing she has displayed is unforgivable rudeness, having left Pearl to clean up on her own. Franziska gives her face one last splash of cool water, pats it dry, and returns to the kitchen.

She’s too late; the girl is altogether too quick. But now, having already made an ass of herself, she supposes it is as good a time as any to acknowledge the other work Pearl has been doing. "Pearl. May I speak with you?"

"Oh! Um, sure, of course!"

She doesn't quite know how to begin what she wants to say. There's a long, awkward moment of silence—though Pearl doesn't seem to perceive it as such, carrying on with tidying the counter—before she finally finds the right words. "I want to thank you."

Pearl jumps. "Um. Me?"

"Yes, you." Her amusement, she hopes, is not too evident. Hopes, further, that she will one day find a way to make her teasing sound warm and fond, the way someone raised in a different family might speak to a sister; the way Franziska sometimes faintly recalls her own sister speaking to her long ago. "Pearl Fey," she says to remove the ambiguity, "thank you."

"You're welcome? I really don't mind making dinner! You know that. I just appreciate that you'll help me test recipes."

"Dinner was enjoyable, as always. But that is not what I meant."

"Oh?"

"I want to thank you for welcoming me. I know that it could not have been easy to change your… expectations for Maya. Nor to forgive me."

Pearl is busy mouthing expectations in confusion when the meaning seems to hit her, and she blushes brightly. "Um… I really hoped everybody had forgotten about that. I didn't even really know what a ‘special someone’ was. But… I'm glad. That you're hers. I think, um. That I needed to know that you could—that you could do that."

This time, it's Franziska turning over the words in her mind, brow furrowed as she puts together the pieces: the vague language, the deeper blush, Pearl’s downward glance and wringing hands. She makes a small noise of recognition, startling Pearl into looking up at her, and then, though she will never know in a million years what spirit possessed her to do so, she opens her arms wide.

Not a second later, Pearl is sniffling against her neck, all of her weight collapsed forward onto Franziska, who takes a moment to catch onto the logical next step but ultimately succeeds in putting her arms around Pearl's shoulders and cradling her there.

"I'm so sorry, I just—I’ve never told anybody that, and, um, it was. It kind of just slipped out."

"It's quite all right. I am—" she pauses, grasping for the words she would have wanted, "very proud of you for saying what you needed to. And honored to have helped you say it."

Pearl sniffs again and then pulls away, laughing through her tears. "Mm, I feel a little silly now. Would you, um… please not tell Master Maya? Yet? I don't think I really know all the right words yet. For me, I mean. There are a lot of them."

"Of course. I won't say a thing." Franziska has never much considered the words she would use for herself, and a few days before her wedding certainly isn't the time to start wondering if she needs them.

Still, the only thing that stops her from spending the evening in a mildly panicked deep dive into terminology is the knowledge that Maya would ask questions, and that would put Pearl's trust in jeopardy. She remains content for the moment, as she has for several years now, with identifying herself simply as the woman in love with Maya Fey.

The script she is handed when she arrives at their next rehearsal makes her breath catch in panic. It's slashed almost to nothing. All of her notes are gone from it. All of her stage directions and scripted lines are reduced to the barest suggestions of themselves. The rest of the script, the part that provides her cues, is intact, but…

"What is this?" she whispers. It looks almost as if she has been removed.

Penny speaks up before anyone else can. "We came to the conclusion that you might need a little more freedom of expression," she says smoothly, adjusting her glasses.

Freedom? There had been altogether too much freedom in the original version. That was why she'd made so many annotations in the first place. How is she supposed to start over from nothing?

Maya had said the detailed script was working against her. Maya wanted her to—to be herself. But herself is a woman who writes the rules just so she can follow them, who stacks the details a hundred pages deep so as not to miss anything.

Except—except when she isn't. Except when she is sitting on floor of the Fey manor and laughing along with Maya and Pearl at ridiculous daytime television, or when she allows herself to get dragged into Maya’s harmless schemes against Phoenix Wright, or when she tosses a quiet, sarcastic aside toward Miles Edgeworth instead of against him the way she used to. Except when she comforts Pearl Fey on the fly and somehow ends up having done it in a way that feels right.

Except, maybe, when she is the woman preparing to marry the love of her life on a children's show surrounded by actors and fictional characters who are widely touted for their lovable nature and positive impact.

Her breath comes back to her in a rush, and she breathes in deeply before exhaling, straightening her back and squaring her shoulders as she does.

A few feet away, Maya is smiling even before their eyes meet, and Franziska is grateful all over again for the way Maya knows her. The way Maya, despite everything, trusts her. There is only one gift greater, and she has that, too: Maya Fey loves her.

That's enough, more than enough, to carry her forward to the set.

"I still think these creatures are very strange," she tells Maya as they watch the stage crew make final preparations for the upcoming scene.

"Fran, shh! They’re monsters, not creatures. And most of them are kids. Apparently. We have to be nice."

She snorts, recalling exactly how Maya had learned about monsters’ ages.

"You’re up, ladies!"

As they walk forward, Franziska could swear she sees something change in Maya’s posture and gait. She loosens, somehow, becomes liquid and takes on an exaggerated spring in her step. It strikes Franziska as familiar, but she can’t immediately place where she’s seen it before.

They begin going through the scene, which begins, luckily, with not much input needed from Franziska. Maya engages one of the human occupants of Sesame Street in a conversation about them having lost their way, and a little pink monster interrupts them. Abby Cadabby, Franziska recalls from her research, but before she can get lost in remembering the character’s details, Maya turns to Abby to include her in the conversation, and Franziska realizes what’s been eluding her.

Maya is, with no hesitation or pretense, absolutely committed to the concept that the creature in front of her is a real person to converse with. She has dropped her guard in a very literal way, and for all intents and purposes, she currently lives in the type of world that sees humans and monsters coexisting.

Franziska knows this because Maya had explained the phenomenon a couple of years ago after coaxing Miles Edgeworth through his first fan convention. There are photos from the end of the weekend that show her little brother in full character, clashing weapons and exchanging smiles with complete strangers.

Well.

If he can do it, she can do it better.

It’s awkward at first, but she gets her bearings, more or less, by the time they have reshot a few of the more complicated scenes. She isn’t as graceful at sinking into her role as Maya, but there are stacks on stacks of reasons that Maya is so skilled at swapping the mask she wears. Franziska, until recently, has only ever needed to wear one.

Still, by afternoon, she has abandoned her script—such as it is—entirely. Her conversation partners’ cues are all the evidence she needs to know what’s needed from her. It’s not unlike countering an argument in court.

She gets, perhaps, a bit carried away on this angle, as she begins asking every new character for their name and occupation. It goes well enough with the human residents, and then they meet Elmo.

"Hello! I’m Maya, and this is Franziska."

"Hello. Please state your name and occupation."

"Um… Miss Franziska? Miss Franziska, Elmo is only three. Elmo does not know what occupation means," the small red monster informs her.

There’s whispering off in the corner, and for a moment, Franziska worries that she’s going to have to start over with a new strategy, but Maya steps in.

"Oh! Occupation means job. So, it’s what you do to earn money or to help out in the world!" she says brightly, and the way she tailors the explanation so effortlessly threatens to overwhelm Franziska with fondness.

"Ohh, Elmo understands now! Occupation is the same as job. So, um, Miss Maya, what is your occupation?"

Maya and Franziska look at each other briefly, and the blank look in Maya’s eyes tells Franziska that it’s her turn to stage a rescue. They are here for a variety of reasons, but talking to small children about death and spirit channeling are not among them.

"My fiancée is the the mayor of a small town. That means… she helps to make big decisions that affect a lot of people." It’s not as graceful as Maya’s save, she knows, but it’s something.

"Wow!! Miss Maya sounds very important."

"She is," Franziska says proudly, and Maya takes her hand.

"But, um, Elmo has another question. What is a fiancée?"

Maya still looks a little choked up, so Franziska supplies, "Fiancée is a word for someone you are going to marry. So when we realized that we liked each other and began dating, I called her my girlfriend. When we decided that we would like to marry each other, she became my fiancée."

"Oh! Oh! Elmo knows what’s next. Today, Miss Maya will be your wife."

Now Franziska, too, is fighting down a lump in her throat. "Yes. Yes, she will be. That’s exactly right."

No one suggests that they run through that scene again, and Franziska is nearly as grateful for that as she is for the brief moment of respite to lean against Maya in the cool space away from the spotlights.

"Please state your name and occupation," she directs not long after, staring down a furry blue monster.

"Cookie Monster EAT COOKIES!" he replies, shoveling crumbling prop cookies toward his fabric mouth.

Franziska looks at the camera and blinks. For a moment, she’s unsure of what else to do with nothing much to respond to, so she speaks to Maya instead. "That may be the clearest response I have ever gotten to that question."

It makes Maya burst into infectious giggles, and no one asks them to reconsider that scene, either.

"You know," Penny says on their next break, "you were only supposed to be rehearsing today, but I think we’ll be keeping some of those takes. I’ve worked around here long enough to know how hard it is to recreate genuine emotion." Her eyes are all but sparkling behind her round glasses. "But that means we’re back on schedule. Up for a little more today, or should we save the rest for the scheduled recording day?"

"I don’t know," Franziska admits, and it’s not often that she’s felt comfortable saying those words aloud. She is creeping toward exhaustion, and even Maya is losing a bit of the bounce to her demeanor.

"I’m game to keep going," Maya puts in, "but… it might not be the worst thing to take a little break. Get some time to, you know. Process."

"It might break our concentration. If we’ve been doing well…"

"Nope, nevermind," Penny cuts in. "I know the sound of that line of thinking. I’ve pulled enough miserable all-nighters to see you’re both gearing up to do your own version of that, and I won’t stand for it. Take the rest of the afternoon, and come back tomorrow with exactly that energy. Can you do that for me?"

"We can try!"

"We will succeed."

And they do.

"Hi, Big Bird! We heard you might need some help!" He’s one of the few characters they are meeting a second time, and Franziska is glad that she isn’t in charge of finding the topic of this conversation.

"Oh, I sure do, Maya. You see, it’s my bear, Radar. He was gone when I woke up, and now he’s back in my nest but he’s all dirty!" The very large and very yellow bird sounds distraught.

"Do you need help getting him clean? I have lots of solutions for spot-washing."

"Oh, no, that’s OK. I know how to do that. Radar and I have lived together a long time. Isn’t that right, Radar?"

Franziska expects the bear to answer, and when it does not, she takes longer than she’d like to admit to recover. "Then what is it we can help with?"

"Welllll, I heard that you’re very good at solving mysteries. Is that true?" He looks directly at Franziska, and his simple puppet face somehow manages to manifest emotion—a sort of shy hope that instantly makes her think of Pearl. Suddenly, it isn’t quite so surprising that this character is her favorite.

"Investigation is part of my work, yes."

"Then, if it’s not too much trouble, do you think you could help me find out who took Radar? Everyone says they didn’t do it, but someone must have!"

This is how Franziska finds herself preparing to interview a whole host of muppets. It occurs to her only while the stage is being adjusted for the next scene that her behavior in this segment will represent the prosecutors’ office. She must be thorough and fair. She must make her questions clear and accessible to her audience. She must—

"Fran? You OK? You’re clenching your fists," Maya points out, loosening one by sliding her own hand into it.

"I am fine. Thank you. Just… considering."

"I’m not so bad at investigating, myself, you know. Maybe we can work together?"

"I think," she says slowly, "that I ought to handle this part myself. Perhaps you could serve as counsel for the defendant, if a suspect should be found."

"Ooh, Phoenix Wright, step aside!" Maya laughs, and Franziska joins her in it, taking her other hand as well and squeezing both.

"Ready for you, ladies!" Penny calls, breaking up their giggling. "Franziska, how about you walk Big Bird through your process?"

Easy enough. She has explained it to Prosecutor Debeste enough times; he still gets so flustered under heavy pressure.

"We begin by examining the scene of the crime," she walks slowly so that Big Bird can keep pace with her. "In this case, the place from which your friend was taken." They arrive at the nest, and Franziska steps around it, looking from all angles. "We look for evidence. Signs that someone else might have visited, for example. Your nest doesn’t appear damaged. Was anything else out of place?"

"No. Just Radar."

"Hmm. There is a muddy puddle nearby. Do you see anything else?"

"I’m not sure… oh! There’s some red fur!"

"Very good. I think that will be helpful."

"Really? How?"

"Well, you do not have red fur."

"Nope. I like my yellow feathers just how they are."

"I… am glad to hear it. But do you know anyone who might have left behind some red fur?"

"Ohhh, I understand! If we can find out whose fur it is, we can find out who took Radar!"

"It will certainly get us one step closer, but it may not be so simple."

And it isn’t. At least, after much discussion behind the scenes, they all come to the decision that it shouldn’t be. It is rarely simple in reality, after all. Franziska has made her peace with the puppets, but she draws a firm line at setting unrealistic expectations on educational programming.

"But… Telly, why did you take Radar?" Big Bird asks tearfully after a great deal of chasing red muppets around.

"I didn’t, that’s what I’m trying to tell you! I just saw him there in the puddle and put him back in your nest."

"So… you didn’t take him? Then who did?"

"Hey, Big Bird?" Maya cuts in. "Do you think it’s possible that no one took him?"

"But he was gone," the bird nearly wails. "Someone had to."

"You know, sometimes when I’m sleeping, I knock my pillow right off the bed. Do you think that could have happened?" Maya asks, stepping in to put a hand on Big Bird’s arm. She is, in that moment, a woman comforting an upset child, and it is all so typical and natural that even Franziska believes it.

"You mean… I knocked Radar out of the nest?"

"And right into the puddle," Franziska concludes. "When you woke up without him, you must have been very afraid. Perhaps you didn’t look very carefully."

"Do you really think that’s what happened? Oh, Radar, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to."

Franziska does not, herself, feel inclined to comfort him any further, so she leaves that to Maya and addresses the audience instead at Penny’s subtle gesture toward the camera. "We don’t have conclusive evidence—clear proof—of the actual events. This means that we can never be exactly sure. But since we cannot be sure, we cannot say that Telly Monster is guilty. We must believe the story he told us about rescuing Radar from the puddle."

"Oh no," Big Bird frets, turning back toward the rest of the monsters. "I must have made you all feel so bad. I’m really sorry."

"It’s OK! Elmo knows how much Big Bird cares about Radar."

The other red monsters nod and murmur agreement, and then Maya steps up beside Franziska.

"Case closed," she says, winking at the camera.

The last of the complicated scenes is finally upon them. If, of course, one chooses not to think of one’s own wedding as a complicated scene to be recorded. Franziska has tried very, very hard to keep from considering it as such.

It’s all going fine until their new furry friend improvises in a way they hadn’t quite planned for.

"Soooo, that means that your kids would have two mommies. Oh! I know a friend who has two daddies," Grover says importantly.

"So what?" Maya whispers from the corner of her mouth. "I know someone who has three."

"Ms. Fey, please remember that your microphone will pick up everything. Yes, even that," someone off to Franziska’s right says, resting their forehead in their hand. "Can we try that again?"

"Sorry!"

"I know a friend who has two daddies," Grover repeats just as importantly, adding on, "I will go and get him right now!"

"Oh—Grover… Grover, Grover, wait!" Maya calls, getting his attention. "We’re actually not sure that we’re going to have kids."

Franziska’s stomach drops. They’ve had this conversation on multiple occasions, and they come to the same conclusion each time: they have enough responsibilities. They have people to care for already. There is no intention from either of them to pursue having children. But it’s a conversation that she has always expected to keep intensely private.

"But… I do not understand. Isn’t that what getting married is for?"

"Sometimes!" Maya affirms, bright and encouraging as always, and Franziska transfers her tension to the clasp of their joined hands, where Maya squeezes and releases. "People can choose to get married or not get married for lots of reasons. And they can choose what kind of family to have, too. Sometimes people who aren’t married have kids together, and that’s also fine! But Franziska and I have cousins and nieces and nephews that we take care of sometimes. Right now, that’s the family we want. Does that make sense?"

"Having children is also a very big responsibility," Franziska chimes in. "We have a lot of other responsibilities. Perhaps someday that will change, but perhaps it won’t. Either way, we will decide together, just as we decided together to get married."

Before Grover can respond, a human resident—it amuses Franziska to realize that now it is the humans whose names she cannot recall—walks by and pauses. "Oh! Are you the ones getting married today? Everyone’s been looking all over for you. It’s almost time!"

"Oh no! Fran, we can’t be late for our own wedding! We’d better get going."

"Of course we can be late," Franziska scoffs, getting to her feet and helping Maya to do the same. "It is our wedding, after all."

The actual wedding, of course, is still three days away, but Franziska would walk the aisle this very moment just to keep the scrunched-nose smile on Maya’s face.

Someone knocks on the door to Franziska's dressing room just as Vera is tying up her second boot.

"It's us!" Trucy calls.

Of course it is. She and Pearl have been running back and forth between Franziska's room and Maya’s for the last half-hour.

"Come in," Franziska directs for what is at least the fourth time.

"The people with our dresses got here and—oh!" Trucy stops short, eyes wide.

"Close the door," Pearl hisses. "If Master Maya walks by, it's bad luck, and—oh!"

Franziska refrains from rolling her eyes only because her makeup was applied so delicately that she worries it will shatter at the slightest hint of expression. "Is there something on my face?"

"It's just… you look so pretty. I mean, not that you usually don't, but you look like…"

"Like you're getting married," Pearl finishes for her, misty-eyed.

"Good. I am." She feels like a fool for it, but the thought makes her giddy every time she thinks it. "You both look exceptional as well. Ms. Misham, do I spy your handiwork on Pearl's skirt?"

"Oh! Um, yes. You… could tell?"

"Yes. You will make a name for yourself in original design in no time at all, I should think."

"Wait, Vera!?" Trucy squeals, and she all but drags Pearl over to introduce the two of them.

Franziska leaves them to it, their chatter fading dully into the background as she gives herself another once-over. She is, as she's heard people say, as ready as she's going to get, and there is nothing to do now but wait.

They are married in a fabricated town plaza in a dusty, underfunded studio. Their immediate audience consists mostly of people they have never met. Their every move is recorded to share with a much, much wider audience at some later date. It should feel empty, Franziska thinks as she waits for her cue. It should feel hollow and foolish and shameful.

But a band of puppets begins to play a wedding march, and as she's beckoned forward toward the place where she will soon meet Maya, she finds that nothing has ever felt as real as this. Nothing has left her feeling as fulfilled as the sight of Maya walking toward her while Miles looks on proudly and Pearl sniffles in the crowd and leans against a big yellow bird for support.

The officiant is a felt puppet of an old man, but Franziska has no attention to spare him. Maya is only inches from her now, stopped in the appointed place and as gorgeous as anyone has ever been. Her makeup emphasizes the curve of her smile and the warmth in her cheeks, and her hair frames her face in delicate tendrils; the rest is braided and done up in something so complicated that Franziska's eyes fail to follow it. Her dress is styled almost like her usual outfits, though the length and fabric mark it as something more formal. The shining bottom layer glimmers in purple and blue on cream. Her beautiful hands are hidden under matching gloves that Franziska is already dreaming of peeling off slowly.

Any worries Franziska may have had about being observed fade away under the absolute certainty that all eyes are on Maya and Maya alone.

Her own gaze certainly stays fixed there; it doesn't leave when Pearl arrives, still tearful, with their rings, and certainly not as they state their vows.

Franziska von Karma kisses the bride on international television, and she doesn’t so much as flinch when the cast of the show collectively bursts into song.

A musical number wasn't in her notes or in any part of their rehearsals, and her head is still buzzing with Maya, Maya, Maya so that she hardly hears the lyrics, but the chorus is easy enough to catch. Hand-in-hand with her wife, it's even easy enough to sing along, particularly when she agrees so wholeheartedly:

Anthems of joy we sing
Strength to this love we bring
Joy from the hearth of spring
On this great day

Great, she thinks, as in large, momentous, impossible to ignore. As in excellent, stellar, better than good.

For all the time she spent seeking perfection, she thinks now, looking into Maya's eyes, that what she has needed all along was far simpler and far more attainable.

"On this great day," she concludes along with the rest, and perhaps an intimate whisper would have been more dignified, but dignity has no more place in her life if the cost is joy.

(She will grumpily rescind this unspoken statement when the episode airs and reveals that her audio was isolated to give the impression of a brief but passionate solo, but she still will not regret it.)

Notes:

OK, so!!! This is a patently ridiculous premise and, as such, there will be some ridiculous things and major inconsistencies. Here are just a few of them:
I know, I know. Telly has been retired. Let's pretend he comes back in the future, I guess.

I don't have children and I'm not frequently around them, so my characterizations forSesame Street characters and my understanding of their friendships and character arcs are built mostly on my own memories, which at this point means we're working with information that's at least 20 years out of date in most cases.

We’re ignoring that this is not how filming for television works. Ace Attorney handwavey powers activate. It's about the shenanigans, not the accuracy.

Franziska uses muppets, puppets, and characters pretty interchangeably. She doesn’t really know which one’s right, and at this point, she’s afraid to ask.

If there are any inconsistencies in my timeline for this fic, well, I wrote it over the course of an entire year. At some point, I simply had to call it good enough and send it out into the world.

If you read the above and then read the fic anyway, thank you. I have a lot of love for this one, imperfect as it is, and I'm so glad to be able to share this with you after so long. Find me on tumblr @contritecactite if you like!
A couple of little extras:
Franziska's boots are a little like this
"Anthems of Joy," which I borrowed from the Henson The Frog Prince and adapted here.
The person helping Maya get dressed during the rehearsal is named Nita Lynn Thredd. Vera has been apprenticing with her.
The person responsible for Franziska's makeup is named Rhea Du. You have no idea how disappointed I am to have had these names on deck and not ended up with a good way to make them obvious.

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Anthems of Joy

contritecactite

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